Don't Let Me Die
by Slovenskych
Summary: It's been over twenty years since the Polish-Lithuanian war – twenty years since Toris and Feliks's friendship was destroyed. With so many wounds inflicted, only one thing can bring them back together: the prospect of mortality. WWII, rated T for violence.
1. Chapter 1

**I know what you're thinking: She's ALIVE!?  
Yes, amazingly, although my writing attention span is like that of a college student learning Russian and trying to keep up with this epic new reality show called the 2016 Presidential Elections. You should watch it sometime – lots of throat-ripping and back-stabbing, it's great. ;)**

 **ANYWHOO so I am in the long, slow process of rebuilding my stories so that they blend together better and are more historically accurate. This involves re-writing DITR so that it will flow better with the sequel, as well as throwing in little jewels that give some backstory. You can read this on its own and it will make perfect sense, but Swastikas and Ceilings serves as a prequel. (I feel like I'm writing an entire show here...ugh.)**

 **This story is replacing Broken,** **and I apologize if that bothers you. But it was historically inaccurate and no longer fits in my headcanon universe. So without further ado... enjoy!**

* * *

Don't Let Me Die

 **June 21, 1941**  
 **Berlin, Germany**

Feliks looked up from his journal at the soft knock on his door. His heart fluttered, but it was soon replaced with dread. He heard what Prussia had screamed at her – the whole mansion did. As he stared at his closed door, he wished with all his might for it to be someone else.

The door was silent as it inched open – Feliks had oiled the hinges himself, along with every other damn hinge in this zoo. He heard the soft shift of fabric as she stepped in, the skirts of her dress swinging around her slim frame. She closed the door behind her, eyes downcast in the darkness. The moonlight shone on her hair in silver streaks.

Feliks stared at her and felt his throat clog up. _Don't say it. God dammit, Lizzie, don't you dare freaking say it –_

"I leave tomorrow."

The room was silent. Feliks could barely process the words even though he had known they were coming. The phrase hung in the air with a scent like death. His voice was low and trembling with emotion, "Don't let them control you."

Liz closed her eyes and took a breath.

"Run away. You have enough connections with the Resistance, you like, speak perfect Polish and German, you know all the inns and outs of this freaking Regime –"

"Feel."

"They're not the boss of you and they know it, why else would Prussia wave a freaking gun in your face, why else would Germany send you out there if he thought he could control you? You're badass, Lizzie, and they _know_ that, and they're _afraid_ of you, and you don't have to do this, y-you don't – "

"Please stop."

"You don't have to go out there, and, a-and like freaking freeze to death fighting a psychopath for a war you don't even believe in! What do you think they're going to do to your people when you're gone, Lizzie? You don't think Hitler had a say in this, you don't think he's behind this? He – he doesn't care if we die, he doesn't care, and you can't die, you CAN'T die!"

" _Feliks!"_ She hissed, trying to get him to calm down.

He couldn't stop the hot tears that welled up in his eyes, his voice cracking as it turned into a plea. "Don't die! Please! P-please, you'll die out there, you can't go, you c-can't you have to run away, you h-have to –"

In three strides she crossed the room, and before he knew it he was breathing in the sweet scent of honeysuckle, the folds of her dress pressing against his face. He pulled her close, burying his fingers in silky strands of hair as his shoulders shook with sobs. He felt her in his arms – so warm, so real, so _alive_ – and refused to believe that the most beautiful, courageous nation he had ever known was going to be used as cannon fodder.

"You have to be strong," she whispered into his hair.

"I – I c-can't, not without you, I can't – "

"Yes you can." She pulled away and looked him sternly in the eyes, the moonlight shimmering in tear tracks on her face. "You are Feliks Łukasiewicz, the Kingdom of Poland. You are a phoenix. Your people are hanging on, they are fighting back, and _so are you._ You're badass and they know it, and they are afraid of you. So don't you dare tell me that you can't do this, when you have been doing it this entire war."

She baffled him. Liz was leaving for the Eastern Front _tomorrow_ – knowing that she would be helpless to defend her people, knowing that she might never come back – and yet somehow, she was more concerned for his well-being than her own. Nobody had ever sacrificed so much for him, and now he wasn't sure he could survive without her. Feliks gripped the fabric of her sleeves so tightly that his knuckles hurt. His voice was scratchy, barely able to speak past the pain clogging his throat. "They can't take you away from me. They can't _do_ this to me."

"I know," she said, pulling him into another embrace. Her shuddering breaths were hot against his ear as she whispered, "I know."

 **June 24, 1941  
Vilnius, Lithuania**

An ear-splitting shatter pierced the house, shards of glass exploding in every direction. He cowered behind a table, hands covering his head in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the explosion. Splinters whizzed like tiny bullets into his skin, the heat of the blast burning clean through his uniform. His lungs were filled with smoke and he clutched his chest as he coughed, his bloodied hands clawing the floor for balance.

Glass crunched and he instantly felt the presence of another nation. Toris spat a glob of blood onto the floor. His throat burned as he rasped, "A grenade? That's cheap, even for you."

"Trying to kill me while your people look up to me as their liberator?" A boot sent a shard of glass skidding towards him. He winced as it struck the table, splintering into pieces."That's stupid, even for you."

Toris clenched his fists and tried to struggle to his feet, despite the ringing inside of his head from the blast. "You – you k-killed Feliks…"

"I kill a lot of people."

Toris was enraged at the indifference in Prussia's voice. He grunted as he pushed himself off the ground, but froze when he looked up straight into the barrel of a pistol. Two orbs of glittering scarlet jeered down at him, those disgusting lips curled into a satisfied smirk. Prussia's teeth were a startling white against the red – the red in the sky, the red in his eyes, the red staining his uniform. Toris was filled with a sickened horror. How many have looked into those eyes before breathing their last?

"I'm going to be a nice guy and lay out your options. One: You get your socialist ass out of here and onto the next convoy of POW's where you'll be transferred to Berlin. Two: I pull this trigger and you lose what little brains you have left, then you wake up with a hole in your head on a convoy to Berlin."

Toris's eyes widened, horrified at the thought of being shipped to another nation's house like a trophy. Prussia was right – he wanted to kill him – but that was for personal reasons. He had hoped along with his people that the Nazis would grant him autonomy.

Prussia must have seen the dismay in Toris's face. He smirked. "What, Russia never shot you before? You're such an annoying little gnat, you'd think he would have finished you off by now."

Toris trembled with so much anger that he could barely keep his balance. He glared up at his nemesis and growled in a low voice, "You promised independence."

Obnoxious laughter filled the air, a mocking cackle that sent chills down his spine. "KESESESE! He thinks – independence – HAHAHAHA!" Prussia was laughing so hard that he lowered the gun, bending over and struggling to breathe.

Toris felt something shatter inside of him. The fleeting hope he had been clinging to this entire war – that maybe, when the Germans came, he could finally be free of Russia's tyrannical rule – shriveled and died inside of him. With a jolt, Toris realized that negotiating was no longer an option. Divisions of his men were already organized and ready to fight for independence – he had to get out, he had to warn them! He sprung to his feet and lunged past Prussia, leaping over scorched furniture, lungs burning with every gasp for air. His eyes focused on the nearest window – it was his only way out.

BANG!

"AAH!"

Toris cried out as a bullet tore into his right shoulder. The impact sent him flying forward, but he caught himself with his hands and tried to scramble to his feet. A boot kicked him down, mashing his face against the broken glass. He could feel the shards puncture into his skin, his shoulder roaring with such pain that his vision flickered. "AH – ah – AHH!" Toris let out a strangled bellow as Prussia pressed his entire weight onto the wound. He writhed beneath the Prussian, but he knew there was no escape. Toris breathed hard through his mouth, scattering flecks of spit and blood. "Ne," he moaned, his voice cracking with the strain. His people, he had to get to his _people!_

At last the pressure was removed from his shoulder. Toris prepared to scramble away, but his muscles froze when he felt a cool circular ring press into the back of his head.

"Willkommen in dem Dritten Reich… _Uselessuania_."

BANG!

 **June 26, 1941  
Eastern Front **

It was the feeling of a dream slipping away. The faces of confusion, betrayal, fear… all followed by the widened, pale shock of death. Slumped into a ditch, herded onto a train…He could see their expressions, hear their screams, his heart hammered with theirs in fear… but it was all like a vision. There seemed to be a veil between him and his people, the same veil that had existed in his nightmares while he lived in Russia's mansion. He would try to comfort them, or stand between them and the barrels of the Lugers pointed to the backs of their heads. But no matter how far he reached, or how loud he screamed, he could not be heard. He was an invisible guardian, helpless as he watched his life force bleed onto the stained carpet of Europe.

 _"Zeilen… FEUER!"_

 _BANG!_

When Toris's eyes fluttered open, he saw grey. As his vision cleared, he saw that the tone swirled with darker shades, in and out of a colorless canvass…

 _It's the sky._

Toris coughed. A horrible pounding screeched through his head. He reached up to touch it, and the tips of his fingers roughed over a bandage. His first instinct was to assume that Russia had bashed his head again, but then why was he seeing the sky? And then for the first time Toris noticed a steady rumbling of an engine, and the way that his back bumped against a hard surface, metal rattling. And there were voices, but he couldn't understand what they were saying…

He turned his head to the side and squinted to see a soldier. The man was young, with a forest green uniform, his round helmet thumping against his boots. His back leaned against what looked like the flatbed of a military vehicle, a muscular arm draped over one knee. Toris knew by his uniform that he definitely wasn't with the Soviet Army, nor was he Lithuanian.

"Where am I?"

Smokey eyes darted in his direction, and the soldier's hand snapped to his holster. Toris thought he recognized something about that face, but he couldn't place it. "Do – do you speak English?" The soldier didn't respond, his muscles tightening in a position where he could spring to his feet. "Вы говорите по русски?" Still no answer. "Polsku? Lietuviškai?"

At last the soldier seemed to understand. He relaxed slightly, leaning back onto the side of the vehicle. "Diese Sprachen werden dich nicht weiterbringen," he muttered, flicking out a cigarette.

Toris's eyes widened. "Deutsch…"

"Ja, Deutch. Erkennst du nicht die Uniform?"

"I-I'm sorry, I…" Toris's breathing became labored as he realized what had happened. "No… no, no, NO!" He sat up, but with a swift click a pistol was pointed at his head.

"Legen Sie sich hin, Ratte."

"Where am I, where are we going!? Wo – gehen…ich…"

"Berlin."

Toris fell back onto the flatbed, his eyes wide in horror. "Berlin…" he repeated. "No, that can't be, I – I'm supposed to be in Vilnius, with my people, I'm supposed to – Dieve…" _How did this happen!?_ Then in a flash, Toris remembered a pair of blazing red eyes among the smoke and fire. He reached up to touch the bandage again. "Oh my god." Prussia had shot him. Prussia had _shot_ him! And now he was being held prisoner on a convoy to Berlin! "No… no, no, no, this is all wrong! What – what about our independence, what about – "

The soldier growled another stream of German, pointing the pistol in his direction again. Toris didn't understand, but he knew when to shut up. With a grunt, he peered over the edge of the vehicle to look at the convoy. Several VW's and covered trucks rumbled along the dirt road, soldiers perched on the backs and making light conversation. He could make out the defeated faces of Soviet POW's and the bloody bandages of wounded Nazis. When he looked at the faces of the Germans, they seemed so… _happy._ Even the soldier in the back of this VW seemed at ease, gazing out across the countryside as he puffed smoke rings.

Toris wanted to scream. Didn't they understand? Didn't they realize what they had taken away from him, from his people? He had risked his life escaping the mansion to fight with the Nazis – and all for what? To be shipped off to another collection of subordinates?

"This can't be happening to me…They can't _do_ this to me…" He pressed his bandaged head to his knees. It hurt, but he didn't want anyone to see the hot tears that fell from his eyes, rolling off his nose to soak into his uniform. "I'm sorry," he whispered, wishing that his people could hear him. "I'm so, _so_ sorry."

 **June 28, 1941  
Berlin, Germany **

"Strip."

Toris gaped at the officer in front of him. "P-pardon?"

"You are to turn in all personal belongings, then shower." The officer slid a pile of folded clothes off the shelf and slammed them onto the desk. "This is your new uniform."

Toris shuddered; this was much more systematic than his entries to Russia's house. Ivan always personally escorted them to his home and threw a large dinner party. As sick and ironic as it was, somehow it gave Toris more dignity than this. Here, he didn't feel like a subordinate – he felt like a prisoner of war.

"RAUS!" the officer barked, and Toris jumped before snatching the uniform off the desk. "J-jawohl."

He followed the signs to a room with rows of showers, the spay of water echoing as other prisoners washed themselves. There weren't any curtains, but at least a brick wall separated Toris from the others. He reached up to unbutton his uniform, then his fingers froze. He glanced down at the the yellow, green, and red badge of his flag sewn to his left arm. He had hidden the uniform in a closet when Russia came to get him, knowing that someday he would return to wear it again. But now he would have to hand it over to the Nazis.

Toris unbuttoned his jacket, working his fingers beneath the badge until he managed to rip it off. He set it on top of his new uniform, holding back tears as he shed the last proof of his national identity. His fingers curled around the uniform as he pressed it against his face. He breathed in the scent of his country – of wheat fields, salty sea, and pastries – not knowing when he might get to touch anything Lithuanian again. "I'll come back," he whispered. "I promise."

After showering, Toris pulled on the new uniform. It was stiff and had the crisp scent of newly pressed fabric. There was no history in it; Toris felt like he was wearing a name tag. Even his uniforms at Russia's house were his own; they smelled like vodka and soup, worn with years of use. _That's because Ivan kept them,_ he thought bitterly. Toris remembered returning to the mansion, shocked to see that all of his old belongings were exactly as he had left them. It was as if those twenty years of independence never happened.

When Toris walked back to the front office, the officer waved him to a chair. "Wait here."

Toris lowered himself into a seat. When he looked up, he locked eyes with a photograph of Hitler hung on the opposite wall. Toris shuddered; a similar reaction to when he caught Stalin's eye at Russia's house or in official buildings. But instead of turning away as he did with Stalin, Toris looked back into the face of the Führer. His expression was hardened into a look of confident determination, leaned back in a military posture as he looked straight into the camera. It was different than Stalin, who's eyes wrinkled at the slight smile on his face. The "Great Leader" was always looking up and to the side, never directly at the painter. That was another difference: Hitler's picture was a black-and-white photograph, Stalin's portraits were usually painted with the bright Communist red adornments and medals on his uniform. "It matches them," Toris mused, imagining Russia or Germany posing for a portrait. Of course Ivan would smile and try to appear warm, while Germany would stand steely and strong.

Toris remembered the rants booming from Ivan's room as he would scream and curse Hitler's name. At the time Toris had been foolish enough to believe that the German dictator was his key to independence… but looking into those cold eyes, he saw that while different than Stalin, this man was one in the same. "Kurvosvaikas," he hissed under his breath, for once grateful that the Nazis couldn't understand his language.

Hours went by, and Toris was left with nothing to do but imagine what might happen to him. He had heard the horror stories of labor camps and discrimination against Jews. Ivan told him that Germany and Prussia had left Feliks to die in the blood of his own people. He shuddered, remembering the unhinged madness in Prussia's laugh. What if the other subordinates were being treated the same way? What if this place was no better than the Soviet Union?

Just then the door to the office opened. The officer at the desk jumped to his feet, raising his right arm in a salute. "Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler," came the bored response. Toris recognized that voice. He glanced sideways and was met with a sharp pair of indigo eyes behind black-wire glasses. Austria arched an eyebrow. "You aren't going to show respect to the Führer?"

"Ah – uhm – H-Heil Hitler," Toris stuttered, jolting to his feet and raising his arm in what he hoped was the proper salute. The greeting felt strange and poisonous on his tongue; he much preferred to insult the dictator than praise him.

"First mistakes on first days I can forgive. Tomorrow I will not be so merciful."

"Yes, sir."

Austria's eyes narrowed. "That will be 'Jawohl.' I assume you've lost whatever poor German you learned the last time you were here, judging by your painful pronunciation."

"Yes, s – Jawohl."

Austria looked him up and down. There was not a drop of pity in those eyes – only cold indifference. Toris felt as though the Austrian was inspecting a fly he wanted to swat. Toris remembered him as being the proud, haughty head of the Hapsburg Empire. His rule had been stripped of him since the Great War, but it was clear that the Austrian hadn't lost a drop of his dignity… nor his distain for subordinates. His black uniform and blood-red arm band added a darkness to his appearance, exaggerating his already pale complexion. "When the matter is urgent, you will understand. In the meantime I suggest you acquire a dictionary." He flicked a hand. "Kommen sie mit."

Toris followed Austria out of the office and to the curb where a slick black car was waiting. He ducked into the passage's seat, too nervous to ask any questions as Austria took the wheel. The engine started with very little noise – this was a car of luxury. Toris ran his fingers along the leather seats, noting how even Ivan's car wasn't nearly this nice. He half expected Austria to brag about the vehicle, but as he glanced over he saw the same blank expression of before. It was obvious that Austria had done this many times, and saw no value in Toris whatsoever.

Trying not to become angry at his new master's indifference, Toris turned his attention to the city. Steeples and shops slid by the window, Germans making their way through the streets as they went about their daily errands. Toris couldn't help but notice the same isolation he had seen on the streets of Moscow – eyes downcast, walking quickly. It was the life of a people terrified of getting caught. _Strange,_ he thought. _I thought people only looked like this in the Soviet Union._

The drive continued in silence. Soon the city of Berlin thinned out into scattered houses. Toris saw a particularly large one out the window. There must have been at least five chimneys, and a black iron fence twisted along its border. As the house grew larger in the window, he saw a red banner with a swastika hanging from the front windows. Toris's eyes widened as he realized who's residence this was. "It's huge," he breathed. Until now, he had never seen a nation's home larger than Russia's mansion.

"Most of Europe lives in that madhouse," Austria said as he pulled through the gate. Toris glanced over to see that his face had fallen, lines of stress carved into his forehead and cheekbones. He looked... tired.

"Are you here alone?"

"My cousins are out spilling blood and they've taken my wife with them." Austria's expression had hardened into a scowl. Toris couldn't help but wonder if the former empire even agreed with the Nazi's policies. It seemed he was stuck with a job he would rather not have. "But that does not mean this house isn't run with the same precision and discipline as it would be if Ludwig were here." Cold eyes slid in Toris's direction, and a chill shot down his spine. "Is that clear, _Litauen?_ "

Toris knew all too well the challenges of running a nation household. Punishments were severe and meant to scare the other subordinates into submission. His eyes fell into his lap, a cold feeling settling in his stomach. "Jawohl."

Gravel crunched beneath Toris's boots as he stepped out of the car. He followed Austria to the front door, taking note of the elaborate landscaping. He heard some rustling, and glanced over to see a scruffy head of blonde hair. A tall man stood up and wiped his brow, a pair of clippers in one hand. An exhausted face broke into a twisted grin. "Hey, look what the cat brought in!"

Toris blinked. "Denmark?"

There was more rustling, and a smaller man with brown hair emerged from the bushes, twigs and leaves stuck in his hair. He was much thinner than Denmark, dark circles under his eyes. He looked up at Toris with a type of horror. "Die Invasion arbeitete…"

Austria snapped something in German and the smaller nation shot him a dark look before returning to work. Denmark winked at Toris. "Welcome to the hell house, kid."

Madhouse… hell house… what kind of place was this? The door opened soundlessly, and Austria stepped in. Toris took a shaky breath, knowing that he was entering a prison.

"Follow me," Austria said.

"I… have a question."

Sharp eyes told Toris that it had better not be a stupid question.

"Denmark seemed so healthy… but that smaller nation, he looked…"

"Starved?"

Toris nodded.

A darkness fell over Austria's face, his voice becoming low. "Denmark is Aryan. And there are more Jews in Slovakia." He turned without a word and continued walking through the halls.

For a moment Toris was barely able to process what Austria had said. Aryan? More Jews? Was that the only difference? Denmark was thinner than he remembered, but that was nothing compared to the haunted look he had seen in Slovakia's eyes. Toris shuddered and hugged himself as he quickened his pace to catch up with Austria. He tried to think of how many Jews lived in Lithuania. A hundred thousand? Two hundred thousand? A dark feeling twisted in his stomach. There was something very, _very_ wrong about this place.

As they passed the rooms, Toris noticed other nations at work. Some he couldn't recognize, others he knew. He caught sight of the Netherlands arranging flowers, France sweeping the floor, Belgium polishing dishes. After so long of living at Russia's mansion, Toris knew he should be used to seeing nations doing housework. But there was something disturbing about so _many_ of them, some of whom he had never imagined could be enslaved like this. But then, he himself had once been a great empire, and now his role as subordinate seemed almost expected…

As they entered a dining room, Toris heard the steady sound of scrubbing. He saw the back of someone hunched over, the dining table concealing most of their body. As Toris continued to walk, he stood on his toes to try and get a better look. The frame was small, and he caught sight of blonde hair. It was faded and brittle, hanging on either side of the nation's face. The uniform hung off of a frame so thin, Toris wondered how the arms even managed to scrub the floor. He could see the knobs of vertebrae poking from the back of the uniform. Whoever this was, they were in much worse condition than any of the nations he had seen. He stepped to the side, trying to get a look at the nation's face…

Toris lost his breath.

The cheekbones were so pronounced, and the skin so pale, that he was barely able to recognize the thin sweeping eyebrows and small, pointed nose. But underneath all of that, it was the same face. Toris's mouth opened and closed, but he could not find the breath, could not find the words. Austria turned around and marched back towards him. "I do not recall ordering you to go sight-seeing!"

But Toris didn't hear. At last he managed to regain the ability to speak, his voice a disbelieving gasp. _"Feliks?"_

The scrubbing stopped. The figure rose, then turned around. One eye was purple and swollen shut, the other outlined with dark circles. Angry red gashes sliced the side of his head, and his cheekbones protruded out from his face. His nose seemed crooked as though broken, and his lip was swollen and red. Staring straight at Toris was one bright green eye.

Toris gasped, his entire body jolting from the shock. "F… Feliks…"

"Litauen! You are disobeying a direct order!"

Toris felt the entire world fall away from his feet. He saw nothing, heard nothing, except for the broken face of the nation staring at him. His entire body shook with a violent sob, then he ran forward and fell at his best friend's feet. He could hardly speak, could hardly even see past the hot tears streaming from his eyes as his lungs rattled and he clung to the uniform of the nation he had thought to be dead.

"I – I – I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, please, p-please forgive me, I'm sorry! Oh my god! Oh-o-oh my go-od! Oh my god, I – I th-thought you were dead, I thought you were dead, I'm so sorry-y-y-y!"

"LITAUEN!"

Toris looked up and took Feliks's face in his hands. The skin was cold, but it was there… he was here, he was here, and _alive!_ He could barely think, his hands shook so badly that he was afraid of hurting him more. "Oh my god, you're alive… you're alive…"

Feliks said nothing. That one green eye stared back at him, wide but without any tears. "Please… please, F-Feliks… please say something. Say something, please! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Oh my god, please forgive me, I'm _sorry!"_

There was a slight _whoosh_ and Toris was blinded by a flash of pain in his head. He cried out, breaking away from Feliks to press a hand to his forehead. Warm blood seeped from the hit. Another whip came down on his shoulder and he instinctively curled up into a ball on the ground, head tucked inside of his knees. "Are you quite finished with the melodramatics?" Austria snapped.

Toris was unable to answer, panting through his mouth. His entire body trembled. _Feliks is alive. Feliks is alive! He's alive! He's alive!_

A firm hand grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet. Toris winced when he felt the familiar brush of a riding crop beneath his chin. He forced himself to look into flaming indigo eyes.

"The first and foremost rule in this house is to _obey orders,_ without question or hesitation _._ And the second is that you are NOT to speak your native languages, under ANY circumstances. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Toris had to swallow the mucus in the back of his throat before he could answer. Until now, he hadn't even realized that he had been speaking Polish. "J-Jawohl."

"Consider this a warning. Now, _follow me."_

Toris took a shaky step forward to fall in line behind Austria. He looked back to see Feliks staring at the ground with an unreadable expression. Then the Pole slowly turned around, picked put the brush, and continued cleaning the floor.

 _TSH-ch, TSH-ch, TSH-ch._

As the scrubbing faded down the hall, Toris listened for any other sound – crying, talking, _anything._ But all that he heard was the steady scratch of suds as the brush moved across the tile.

The dark figure of Austria blurred in front of him as his eyes heated up with tears. Toris didn't know what was more terrifying: The possibility that Feliks had been brainwashed and didn't recognize him or care that it was him…

Or the possibility that Feliks was perfectly lucid, knew exactly who he was and why he was here, and did not forgive him for what he had done. As Toris walked deeper and deeper into the Nazi household, his greatest fear was not for his people, or for his health, or even his independence. His greatest fear was that his best friend in the entire world still hated him.

* * *

 **History Notes**

 **Hungary:  
** **After the dissolution of the Hapsburg Empire and a series of small wars following WWI, the Treaty of Trianon drew new borders for Hungary that took away more than two-thirds of its previous territory. A third of Hungarians found themselves outside of their country, and the majority of its natural resources were gone. This left them helpless during the Great Depression of the 30's, leading to a heavy reliance on Germany for resources and funding. Hitler appealed to the people's desire to expand the borders, and Hungary officially became part of the Axis Powers in 1940.**

 **Hungary declared war on the Soviet Union June 26, 1941 after a Soviet bombing, which may have been staged by the Nazis to encourage them to join the war. While the Hungarian army had successes at first, they were devastated by the Red Army during the Battle of Stalingrad. The survivors tried to flee, but were captured by the Soviets. There were over 100,000 casualties.  
**

 **During the 1939 Invasion of Poland, Hitler wanted to send German troops through Hungary to speed up the process. But Hungary refused, allowing tens of thousands of Polish military personnel to escape into Hungary and Romania, where they later joined up with Allied forces. Throughout the war, Allied couriers used Hungarian routes for intelligence to and from Poland.**

 **Lithuania:  
** **Following the invasion of Poland, the Soviet Union pressured Lithuania into signing a treaty that stationed 20,000 Soviet Troops in Lithuania. On June 14, 1940 they delivered an ultimatum, demanding the presence of more troops and the establishment of a Soviet government. With already so many troops within their borders, Lithuania had no choice but to accept. The standard of living plummeted, all Lithuanian cultural establishments were banned, and 12,600 people were deported.**

 **Lithuania was invaded by the Nazis on July 22, 1941. The Lithuanians had hoped that the Germans would liberate them from the Soviets, and so many fought alongside them or broke into insurgent groups. They declared their independence for a time, only to be taken over completely by the Nazis. More than 4,000 civilians were killed just in the first stages of the invasion.**

 **Austria:  
** **One of the Nazi's goals was to unite all Germanic peoples. A unification of Austria and Germany was banned by the Treaty of Versailles, but Germany relied heavily on Austrian resources during the depression. In 1938, the Nazis pressured the Austrians through terrorist attacks and pro-Nazi propaganda. A rigged referendum was held, resulting in 99% favor of annexation. After Nazi troops entered Austra, Jews were immediately persecuted. Some Austrians celebrated the Nazi takeover while others mourned.**

 **Denmark:**  
 **Because of their Aryan heritage and other economic and diplomatic reasons, the Danish government remained largely untouched by the Nazis. When it was announced that all Jews would be arrested in 1943, the government gave them warning and 7,500 of them fled to Sweden. Only 500 Jews were deported to a concentration camp.**

 **AN: Some of you may have recognized the second section. This is because it's from the second draft of DITR – similar to the first, but slightly more dramatic. It's probably going to be a looong time before I finish that project, so I thought I might as well throw it in.**

 **I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! This one should be short (I promise) – only one more chapter to go. :) Please leave a review and let me know what you think!**


	2. Chapter 2

**October 6, 1920  
** **Varėna, Lithuania**

It was a twitch, a twisting in his gut, like a leech had attached to his insides and was sucking the life out of him. A growth, an _infestation_ , that he wanted to reach inside of himself and rip out. Toris closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, feeling the parasite squirm. It was near. It was crawling, darting to stay hidden, hunting him down. Its goal was to kill him.

When Toris opened his eyes, they fell on the train station. "There."

The captain next to him shielded his face from the sun, looking out towards the railway. "What's there?"

"Him." Toris shouldered his rifle, straitening his back as his lips pressed into a firm line. He turned on his heel, marching back towards the ranks.

"Pulkininkas Laurinaitus!" the captain called out, jogging after Toris to keep up. "Do you intend to take a unit with you?"

"No." Toris rifled through a supply bag and pulled out a pistol, sliding out the magazine to make sure it was loaded.

"But… surely there is more than one, sir? You'll get killed!"

"No units," Toris said as he clicked the cartridge shut and slid the pistol into its holster. He turned to face the captain as he added, "And I won't get killed."

The captain only shook his head, knowing there was nothing he could say to change his superior's mind. "Godspeed, Pulkininkas Laurinaitus."

Toris only smiled bitterly, an expression that felt strange on his face. But he had never been himself since this war started. Sometimes he couldn't tell if the black worm squirming in his gut was the feeling of an invading nation, or the sickness of knowing that the bullets he had just loaded into his pistol were meant for his best friend.

He left the camp on foot, weaving through tents and groups of his men as they talked about the war. The word "independence" flitted through their conversations – the fever that had overtaken his people, the idea that had branded itself onto his heart and mind, pumping through his blood like molten lava. He had no power yet, only a figment of a memory of what it had tasted like. Toris felt as though he had been without water for over a hundred and twenty-five years, and now he could see it, could feel the coolness slicking down his throat… but he would have to spill blood before it was real. First it had been Russian blood. Now it would be Polish.

"He will never stop me," he growled between clenched teeth as he moved towards the looming shadow of the train station. "Russia couldn't stop me. Nobody can stop me." Independence was his new obsession, and the fight for survival had turned him into someone he barely recognized. Toris had relished in the pain burning in Russia's eyes as he pressed a pistol to his former master's forehead. He had only been a trigger-squeeze away from ending it, a moment he had dreamt of for over a century… and yet it gave him more satisfaction to watch the Russian retreat, wheezing for air as his shoulders lurched with unshed tears. _"There is no need for me to kill you – your own people will do that. Go, crawl back to your precious Revolution."_ Later a soldier had asked Toris why he was smiling.

The train station was abandoned. Toris slowed as he neared the entrance, listening for any sign of movement. He closed his eyes once more, feeling the earth and the bricks and the air that was an extension of himself. His eyes flashed open. _No army. Just one._ Glancing to make sure the way was clear, he darted across the walkway and slipped into the building.

The cement floor and brick walls were dimly lit, glinting from the outside light. Each step sent a hollow echo flitting through the halls. Toris felt as though his own breathing became the building itself – tense for the first gunshot. The feeling of sickness in his stomach intensified. He pressed onward.

Thin beams of sunlight pieced through the windows. They were bleached a grim grey, pooling across the floor to reveal its cracks and rust stains dripping down the walls. Toris's fingers clenched around his pistol as he crouched near the floor, darting around each corner and scanning the area. He heard nothing – not a breath, not a footstep. As obnoxious as he was, Feliks could slip into non-existence when he wanted to. Powerful nations often underestimated him in battle, always surprised at the brutality and cunning with which he fought. Toris smiled bitterly. _They have short memories._ He would not make the same mistake as Russia. He had fought alongside Feliks in the uprisings; he knew the Pole's style as if it were his own.

Eventually Toris found himself in a wide tunnel, with two rows of pillars running along its length. He eyed the pillars, noting how they made perfect barriers to snipe from. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then sprinted across the floor to the nearest column.

BANG, BANG, BANG, BANG!

Bullets whistled past his ears and head, chips of cement flew up from the floor. He staggered behind the column and the gunshots came to an abrupt halt. Toris's chest heaved for air, fingers curling around the pistol. He heard footsteps nearing, then swung out and fired. A green blur darted behind another pillar.

Toris closed his eyes and listened. He knew there was no way to get a shot in if Feliks was hiding behind those pillars. He heard no footsteps, only the soft echoes of his own breathing. The silence was excruciating. At last he could stand it no longer, and peered around the corner –

Something smashed his head into the wall. Pain throbbed in his skull and world reeled before him. Toris barely had a chance to point the gun before it was knocked out of his hand. He growled and shoved Feliks into the pillar, twisting his arm behind his back. Feliks whirled around and a fist cut across Toris's jaw. The pistol came up again, and Toris twisted it out of Feliks's hand. He barely registered the soft s _hing_ of a knife being unsheathed before he brought up an arm to block the stab. For the first time their eyes locked, and Toris found himself staring into the face of a warrior. Pale skin was slicked with sweat, strands of blond hair puffing out as Feliks panted. His teeth were bared into a snarl, eyes narrowed into the focus that Toris recognized from battle: He was here to kill.

Feliks pulled back with the knife, and with a swift motion Toris drew his own and cut down across the Pole's chest. Feliks blocked it, and Toris twisted out of the way just as a blade whooshed past his neck. From then on he was barely aware of their moves – it was a dance of death as they slashed at each other, each attack blocked or dodged as if the other had known it was coming. Toris growled in frustration, trying to outpace his opponent, but Feliks only met his attacks with the same speed. Of course they would be evenly matched – the two had been sparring partners since the Commonwealth. Even during the uprisings, Toris had trained with Feliks to ready him for battle. Fighting the Pole hand-to-hand came almost second nature to him.

Feliks broke from the melee and bolted for his gun. Toris dashed after him, kicking it out of reach and grabbing Feliks to try and throw him down. The Pole shoved him off balance and a boot dug into his ribs. Toris moaned as he hit the ground, then looked up to see Feliks bending down to pick up the gun. His gaze darted to his own pistol, which was too far for him to reach. Toris scrambled to his feet, stumbling behind the pillar just as more gunshots rang out.

BANG, BANG, BANG!

Feliks cursed, then Toris's stomach sank as he heard the clatter of his own pistol being kicked to the far side of the tunnel. He tensed, hand tightened around the knife to prepare for another ambush. This time he could hear the ragged breaths as Feliks paced in front of the column.

"Come _on!"_ he shouted, his voice echoing down the tunnel. "Quit being a coward!"

A familiar sense of anger roiled in his gut at those words. "I'm not the one who's being a coward. You're so afraid of losing me, you can't even let me be my own country!"

"Oh, don't start again with this bullshit." Toris didn't have to see to know that Feliks was rolling his eyes. "Without me, you would be _nothing!_ You came back from Russia's mansion so screwed up, you could hardly speak your own language! You couldn't remember who you were, or what you had been, and you sure as hell didn't believe in what you _could_ be! Who held you when you were falling to pieces? Who whispered folk songs in your ear and told you stories of the Commonwealth to get your memory working again? Who told you that you could be free, that you were _worth_ something, that you didn't have to obey orders from anyone?"

Toris peered around the pillar to glare from beneath his bangs. "So wanting independence doesn't fall under any of those categories?"

Feliks growled and Toris darted behind the column just in time to avoid three gunshots. Chips of cement flew off, ricocheting across the floor.

"How can you be so freaking _ungrateful!?"_ Feliks shouted, his voice cracking. "I spent decades waiting for you, there wasn't a single night that I didn't think about you! I had a future planned, a happy ending for the first time in your freaking life, and _how_ to you thank me?" His breathing was heavy, and Toris could hear the gun shaking in his hands. "You _desert_ me! Just – run the other way as fast as you can go, making deals with that Communist bastard! As if two hundred years of marriage meant nothing to you – "

"Marriage?" Toris scoffed. "You call what we had a _marriage?_ When you weren't bossing me around like your personal house-maid, you were demanding sex to cope with your 'special' needs. And if not that, then you would be screaming at me to get the hell out of 'your' country and never come back!"

"Oh, because when I find out that my husband has been sleeping with a _woman_ I'm supposed to like, be totally fine with it! No big deal, the only person in the entire world who understands me just decides to like, go prancing into the sunset with some bitch off the streets – "

"Natalia treated me better than you ever did," Toris growled.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER!" Feliks's shriek echoed down the tunnel, as if multiple voices were crying out in pain. "It doesn't _matter,_ Liet, because you're my husband and I'm yours, and we are going to be together forever, and we are going to have each other's backs no matter what. Those were the vows, and you will have to break them over my dead body."

Toris's face hardened. He slipped the knife into its hilt, then stepped out from behind the pillar to face Feliks, their gazes sparking in the air between them. "I am no longer your husband, and you are no longer mine. We are bound by no vows."

Feliks bared his teeth, and without a word he pointed the gun to Toris's stomach. BANG!

"AAH!" Toris doubled over, warm blood soaking his uniform.

Feliks let out a humorless laugh. "Can't you see, Liet? I only want to protect you. You can't survive on your own – not your economy, not your culture, and definitely not your borders. What if Russia comes back to get you, what will you do then?" His lips flickered into a smile as he lowered the gun. "Just admit it, already: you _need_ me."

Toris gasped, his hand trembling as he pressed his arm to the seeping wound. "That's – hhh! – w-what…. R-Russia – uhhh – told me…."

Feliks's expression twisted with rage. "Stop comparing me to RUSSIA!" Toris winced at the magnified scream. There were rapid footsteps, and he let out a cry as fingers dug into his throat. His head was forced up as the trembling barrel of a gun was pressed to his neck. "I am NOT _–_ like _Russia,_ " Feliks hissed.

Toris gagged, his eyes bulging as he looked into bright green irises that shimmered with tears. How was it that Feliks could hate Ivan so much, and yet they both treated him so similarly? Was he really this blind? Toris's eyes narrowed as he growled through clenched teeth, "Then grant me my independence, you bitch." With a single motion, he swept the dagger from his belt and sank it into Feliks's stomach.

"AAH-uhh….ghhgh….." Green eyes widened in shock, the barrel slipping from Toris's neck. Feliks cried out in pain as Toris pulled the knife from his flesh, pressing it to his jugular. There was blood everywhere – shimmering on the knife, staining his hands, soaking into their uniforms, pooling onto the cement floor. Both of their hands trembled, their breaths garbled with pain as they glared at each other. Blood spilled from Feliks's lips as he choked, but he kept a strong grip on the gun.

"Guh – g-go ahead," he spat, flecks flying and hitting Toris in the face. "Cut my head off, just like everyone else." He swallowed, lips pulling into a stained smile even as the tears spilled over his eyes. _"It will grow back."_

Toris was filled with horror. Feliks was right – all it would take was a flick of the wrist, and he would be dead. The Poles would surrender and this could all come to an end. Lives would be saved on both sides and Toris would have his independence for the first time in centuries. The water he had been craving was just out of reach, and all it would take was a flick of his wrist…

But no matter how close he was, no matter the hate he saw in those eyes, it was still Feliks looking back at him. They were each other's first, they kept each other's secret, they learned what it meant to be an empire together. They fought wars, they lost wars, and every time Toris escaped from the mansion, Feliks was still waiting for him. But what broke Toris's heart was that even after all they had gone through, Feliks only saw him as a possession, as a _right_ … just as Ivan had. Toris had thought for sure that the Pole would love him enough to let him go. But looking into those eyes now – so full of betrayal and hatred – he saw that he had been wrong.

Toris was close – he was _so_ close – but he couldn't do it.

He pressed the blade so that it nicked a cut into Feliks's neck, his voice a low growl. "Get the hell out of my country. And don't _ever_ come back again."

There was a clatter as the knife hit the floor. Feliks let out a gargled gasp and the gun slipped from Toris's neck. He keeled over and coughed, blood dripping from his mouth. He craned his head upwards, eyes filled with hate. "F-fuck you," he growled, and lifted the gun once more.

BANG, BANG, BANG!

"AAEEIIAAHH!" The bullets tore into Toris's skin like fire. He fell to the ground, gasping for air as he struggled to move. He tilted his head sideways to see the gun drop from Feliks's hand as he rolled onto his back and moaned.

Toris looked up at the ceiling, feeling the blood leak from him like a spilled tank of gasoline. He tried to breathe, but every movement sent a raging fire through his body. The only sounds echoing through the train station was their gargled breaths. Blackness began to eat at the corners of his vision and Toris felt himself slipping away. He thought he heard shouts, but they sounded so distant…

The last thing he remembered was trying to say a single word, but unable to find his voice past the blood clogging his throat:

 _"F-F… Feliks…"_

 **June 28, 1941  
Berlin, Germany**

"You have officially been annexed as a territory of the Third Reich. All national identity and rights to self-govern are hereby revoked. From hereon forthwith, you are sentenced to the service of to the names of those that follow: Ludwig Beilschmidt, nation representative of Germany and the Third Reich, and Gilbert Beilschmidt, nation representative of East Prussia. In addition to these authoritative figures, while in the Nazi Nation Establishment you are also under the jurisdiction of nation representatives Roderich Edelstein and Elizaveta Hedevary. Any course of action taken to undermine the aforementioned authorities is considered an offense against the Third Reich and will be dealt with according to the present master's discretion. All courses of discipline may be supervised and altered according to the Führer's discretion. Lang lebe unser ruhmvoller Führer.

"You have entered the Nazi Nation Establishment at approximately sixteen hours, Berlin time. As a newly acquired territory, you are allowed exactly twenty-four hours during which you are allowed to speak the appointed neutral language. The appointed neutral language at the current time is English. After the twenty-fourth hour you are required by law to speak German. All other forms of language are prohibited, both in speech and in writing. Failure to comply by this law is considered an offense against the Third Reich and will be dealt with according to the present master's discretion. All courses of discipline may be supervised and altered according to the Führer's discretion, lang lebe unser ruhmvoller Führer.

"Upon meeting authorities, all Third Reich territories are to raise their right hand in a salute and say clearly and loudly, 'Heil Hitler.' Upon leaving the presence of authorities, all Third Reich territories are to do the same. Failure to respond to authorities with the proper salute is considered an offense against the Third Reich and will be dealt with according to the present master's discretion. All courses of discipline may be supervised and altered according to the Führer's discretion, lang lebe unser ruhmvoller Führer.

"As a territory of the Third Reich, you have now entered an empire of which the world has never seen. Participation in such an empire is to be considered the greatest honor, as the old shall be replaced with the new, Ein Volk, ein Reich, ein Führer." Austria didn't even glance up or pause to take a breath during the entire speech. "You'll be rooming with Poland. Here are your issued uniforms, Poland can help you locate the room." He flicked up his eyes in expectation. "Well?"

"Ah… uh, Jawohl."

The former empire steeped his gloved fingers on the desk. "It is essential that you understand one thing, Litauen, and that is this: I have little patience for the impulsive desires of every country in Europe. If we were under normal circumstances, I would order you not to bring any issues to my attention unless someone were dying." A bitter smile crossed his face. "But seeing as in our current situation, _everyone_ is dying, I see no reason to be summoned at all. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Toris felt his heart ache. "You hate it here, don't you?"

Austria's eyes narrowed into indigo slits. "I didn't hear a _Jawohl_ , Litauen."

"But you can't do anything about it, because if you do Hitler will find out. And he will punish you."

"It is not often that I am forced to draw blood on the first day of a territory's arrival. I would prefer you not oblige me to do it again."

Toris bowed his head. "Jawohl."

Austria raised an eyebrow, as if waiting for something. Toris realized he was dismissed, and snapped into a quick salute. "Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler," Austria muttered, not even bothering to raise his arm.

Toris turned and left the office. He felt as though in a dream. Surely this couldn't be happening to him. Surely, an officer would come knock on the door and say that this was all a big mistake, that he was supposed to be back in Vilnius with his people, that a treaty had been negotiated and that he could have his own government… How many times must his freedom be taken away?

As Toris walked back though the house, his eyes roamed over the walls and floors. It was mostly blank, with the occasional framed portrait of Hitler. It was so different from Ivan's house, almost cluttered with old artifacts and art collections. Once again Toris had the uneasy feeling that this wasn't a mansion at all – it was a prison cell.

The sickness in his stomach only got worse as he neared the dining room where he had last seen Feliks. Toris didn't know what to feel – he was excited, relieved, terrified, guilty all at the same time. A part of him wanted to avoid Feliks, while the other part screamed to be able to talk to him. Toris was so lost in thought that he nearly tripped over a girl polishing the floor.

"Oh! Oh, Dieve – I'm so sorry!"

Golden brown eyes looked up through brittle brunette hair that fell to her shoulders, a matted braid clipped to the side. Her brows furrowed in recognition. "Ich habe Sie schon irgendwo mal gelesen..."

"I-I'm Lithuania, I just got here." Toris felt so stupid speaking English, but he could barely remember any German.

Her face fell. "Oh. Es tut mir Leid."

Toris recognized it as an apology. "Do – you you know where I could find Poland?"

"Polen? Ich schätze er ist gerade im Esszimme." When Toris only looked at her blankly she whispered in a thick accent, "Dining room. Just go down the hall and to the left."

"Ah, danke." Toris was just about to keep walking, when suddenly the girl jumped to her feet and blocked his path. Her eyes were urgent as she whispered, "I have to warn you. Poland's room is not far from me and my brother's – we could sometimes hear him speaking with Hungary." She glanced down the hallway, clearly nervous that she was having to speak English. Her voice was even softer as she whispered, "He has been cursing your name since the day he got here. He's wished terrible things upon you – things I don't dare repeat."

Toris's heart sank. _No…_

"Be careful. Poland may look weak, but he has connections. I can't tell you how many times he has tried to kill the German brothers."

Toris felt his legs grow weak. So it was true… Feliks still hated him. He barely managed to find his voice. "Th-thank you, um… sorry, what was your name again?"

"Czech." Her eyes were downcast, not at all proud of the name.

Somehow Toris managed to pull his lips into a soft smile. "Thank you, Czech."

She looked up at him for a moment, her face a mask that made it impossible to read any emotion. "You have a nice smile. Don't let them steal it from you." Toris opened his mouth to reply, but she knelt down without a word and continued polishing the floor.

Toris wasn't sure what to do now. He felt as thought he might be sick, knowing how Feliks felt about him. But surely he had seen that Toris was sorry for what he had done? He walked towards the dining room almost in a trance, not knowing what he should say. He heard the steady scrubbing of the brush on the floor as he neared. At last he came to the doorway, and he stood in silence as he watched the skeletal form move the brush up and down. Toris's throat tightened. Feliks was alive, but just barely. He seemed so frail, as if a simple breeze could knock him down. For the longest time he stood, watching the Pole move the brush up, and down, up, and down.

"Was willst du von mir?"

Toris started when he realized that Feliks had spoken German. He had always hated the language, and it was nearly impossible to get Feliks to speak a language he disliked. Toris shuddered as he realized the kind of torture Feliks must have gone through.

"Austria said we're to share a room."

"Austria can go like, fuck himself." Feliks dunked the brush in the bucket and continued scrubbing.

Toris was almost relieved to hear that Feliks hadn't lost his rebellious spirit. "Where is your room?"

"In der dritten Etage, die fünfte Tür hinter den zwei Wohnzimmern."

"You know I can't speak German – "

For the first time Feliks lifted his head to glare at Toris with a single eye. Again Toris found himself shocked at the extend of injuries on the Pole's face. "Then you'd better learn quick before they like, grind up your intestines into wurst, tak?"

Toris felt the blood drain from his face, but he kept his cool. "Where is your room."

"Third floor, fifth door on the right." Feliks narrowed one eye. "And if you so much as _breath_ on any of my stuff, I'll hang you with a freaking curtain rope in the middle of the night."

Toris tried not to think about how detailed that threat was, and how Feliks would be able to do it even in his weak state. He didn't doubt for a second that the Pole was serious. Toris looked into that green eye, but all he could see was hate. He lowered his gaze to the floor and left the dining room, listening to the steady scrub of the brush on tile.

Toris felt numb as his boots echoed in the hallway. He somehow found his way to a staircase, and walked down a long hallway until he reached a closed door. He pressed a hand to the wood and it opened soundlessly. The room was small and without windows, a queen-sized bed in the center. The sheets were perfectly folded, and on the back wall was a desk. For a moment Toris was positive that this couldn't possibly be Feliks's room – surely at least the sheets would be out of place, or there would be a discarded uniform on the floor? He approached the desk, tempted to open the drawers until he remembered Feliks's threat. Then it hit Toris: _This is Feliks's room._

His legs grew weak. Toris walked to the bed and lowered himself onto the mattress, feeling his skin tingle and his breathing grow heavy. _Feliks has a room. Feliks is alive._ His hands trembled as he balled a fist around the sheets, bringing them up to his face to breathe in the scent. Past the laundry soap and mustiness of the Nazi household, Toris recognized what he thought he would never smell again: wheat fields, pastries and horse mane, with just the right tinge of sea-salt and shampoo. And before Toris could stop himself, he was sobbing into the fabric.

 **June 17, 1940  
Moscow, Soviet Union **

Cool violet eyes burned into Toris, but he wasn't afraid. What was there to fear? Death? Pain? He had been there before, choked on so much of it that by now he must be immune. He had bit his tongue during negotiations, but now that Ivan had gotten his way, there was nothing to lose. Twenty years of independence had thickened Toris's blood. He knew who he was, and what his people were capable of. No amount of treaties or torture could change that.

Ivan's lips flashed into a cold smile. "You don't seem happy to be here, Litva."

Toris narrowed his eyes. "Are you so surprised?"

"Mmm… I believe _disappointed_ is a better word, da? I expected more gratitude, seeing as I am the only one standing between you and fascism."

Toris curled a lip. "Fascism and Communism are only two sides of the same coin. I'm sure Ukraine could enlighten you of their similarities."

Ivan's expression grew dark. "What do you know about my sister?"

"I know that your 'perfect' system nearly starved her to death. Are you so sure it's fascism we need to be protected from?"

Ivan crossed the room and struck Toris so hard that he fell to the ground. A huge fist balled around his collar and wrenched him to his feet, violet eyes blazing inches from his own. "I will _not_ do this again," Ivan hissed, vodka-tainted breath hot in Toris's face. "Amerika may have poisoned you with his naive ideals, but that does not change the fact that you are part of this family. Communism runs through your blood – the sooner you accept that, the fewer trains leave your borders for Siberia."

"Acceptance never stopped the deportation of _your_ people. Don't pretend there's a criteria here, Ivan."

A low growl escaped the back of the Russian's throat. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Then let Germany do it."

Something flashed in Ivan's eyes and he released the collar of Toris's shirt. He took a step back, scanning Toris up and down as a smile ghosted across his face. "You don't know what he's capable of, do you?"

"Scores of tanks that wind as far as the eye can see, fleets of bombers that can turn a city into rubble overnight. I've heard stories."

"Then surely you must know, what happened to Poland?"

"He was dissolved, sent to go live with Germany in Berlin. I got my capital back and his land was split in two." Of course Toris knew, it had been plastered all over the headlines and the ethnic Poles had mourned the loss of their country. But he had purposefully shut out as much as the media as he could, only picking up news from what he heard on the streets and within his own government. Poland had been invaded before and would probably get invaded again – it wasn't his problem.

"Nyet, Litva." Ivan's eyes glittered. "Poland is dead."

Toris couldn't help himself, he laughed. "You know just as well as I do that being wiped off the map hardly qualifies as death for Feliks – it's practically an occupational hazard."

"Times are changing, Litva. This is no ordinary war."

Toris studied the Russian closely, trying to discern what game he was playing at. Feliks couldn't be dead, it was impossible. Why waste the breath lying about it?

Ivan turned to a side table and poured himself a glass of vodka. Toris waited as the Russian threw back the shot, then placed the glass back on the table. He leaned his weight onto the wood. "I was there, I saw it with my own eyes. I arrived in Warsaw shortly after Germany and Prussiya had trapped Poland in an abandoned building. He was already weak from the war, but of course this did not stop him from fighting back. His wounds were not healing, he could barely stand on his own two feet." Ivan's brow drew into a frown. "Soon he would not have to. They tied ropes to his wrists and ankles, then spread his arms and legs with stakes on the floor. Poland was shouting insults the whole time, but he stopped when Prussiya took out a knife."

A shudder went through Toris's body. He didn't want to heart this – he had purposefully avoided the news so that he could remain desensitized to the invasion. He couldn't afford sympathy, not after what Feliks had done to him. Ivan's voice was even as he continued, "Prussiya straddled Poland and ripped off his shirt. His chest was already ridden with bullet holes and he started to squirm, pulling at the ropes. But Prussiya only laughed and plunged the knife into his stomach."

"Ivan, please – "

The Russian whirled around to face him, locking Toris in a firm gaze. "He did not stop there. At first Poland was silent, but then he started to scream as Prussiya moved the knife upwards. He cut further, further, until it was stopped by Poland's ribcage."

Toris's eyes widened in horror. Ivan was not smiling, as he normally did when describing gory scenes. His eyes were somber, slightly distant in recollection. _No… no, this didn't really happen, he's lying…_

"Prussiya lifted the knife and cut the surface of the skin, to here." Ivan touched the top of his shoulder. "By now Poland was choking on his own blood and could no longer scream. Prussiya took the knife, put it back into the wound, then began to cut down. The pool of blood had reached my boots, it was at this time I looked up to see Germany turning his head so that he would not have to watch. Poland's body shuddered with the shock, his eyes rolled. When the knife reached his belt line, Prussiya unzipped his pants – "

Toris felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. His head swam with nausea. _No, it isn't true, it can't be!_

"Not even Germany could take it anymore, he shouted for Prussiya to stop. 'Relax,' he said, 'It's not like the faggot is going to need it anymore.' I told him that if he were to continue, our peace agreement was off. He begrudgingly agreed, but this didn't stop him from dragging the knife past Poland's belt line and to the corner of his thigh. 'See? One half for us, one half for you.' And then he pinched Poland's nose so that he couldn't breathe. There was so much blood in his lungs that he barely made a sound, the only noise was of his back hitting the floor as he convulsed. It did not take very long for him to grow still."

Toris's heart pounded in his ears as he tried to comprehend what he had just heard. He looked into Ivan's eyes as he breathed, "Is this true?"

"I have seen nations die before, Litva. Poland is not waking up. Even if he did, his body would be too weak to repair itself and he would suffer infections from the open wound. He would be in extreme pain."

"B-but Germany would have taken him to Berlin – "

"When I left, his body was still tied to the floor. Prussiya was making jokes about selling his hair for a profit." Ivan's expression was somber. "The Nazis are not here to conquer, Litva. They are here to cleanse the earth of the 'lesser' races – Jews, Gypsies, homosexuals… and Slavs. You would be foolish to think that such a cleansing ends with human beings."

Toris trembled. "Th-that's impossible, that's not…no… no, he – he c-can't be dead, he can't – "

"We are family, Litva. This is why we must unite together against them. It would be impossible for you to defend yourself against such an evil alone, and I could not bear to watch you or your brothers suffer the same fate. The Nazis are monsters – they will not stop spilling blood until they have devoured the entire continent."

"No… _no!"_ Toris's voice rose to a shout, and he could feel his eyes heating up with tears. "You could have stopped this! You were standing right there, you – you could have saved him!"

"It was not my place."

"Not your – n-not your _place!?"_ Toris shrieked. "What – what about all this bullshit about being family, of COURSE it was your place, you – you – you bastard, YOU COULD HAVE SAVED HIM!"

"I could have done nothing more than you. You had your chance to fight with him, and you chose to stay neutral. You knew that I would be attacking, and you made the decision not to tell him." A bitter smile crossed Ivan's face. "Do not pretend that I'm the only one at fault here, Litva."

The guilt crashed into Toris with so much force that he almost lost his footing. Ivan was right. He could have stopped this. He knew the invasion was coming and he did nothing to help… His eyes widened in horror as he realized the truth: _I did this._

"What was that you said about letting Germany hurt you?" Ivan smiled. "Doesn't sound so pleasant now, da?"

Toris suddenly realized what the Russian was doing. He had been telling him this to make himself look like the righteous protector of Europe – to instill hate and fear towards the Nazis so that Toris would trust and obey him. Toris shuddered, remembering the glint in Ivan's eyes as he had slid a map of Europe across the desk months before – a map of Europe carved in half, split between the Nazis and the Soviets. Ivan wasn't trying to 'protect' the continent. He wanted to devour it just as much, if not more, than the Nazis… and he was willing to let other nations die in the process.

Toris lifted his head up to glare at his master. "I don't need protection from a nation who can watch my friend suffocate in his own blood and not lift a finger to stop it," he growled, his voice trembling with emotion. "You're right, America did poison me with his naive ideals: it's called self-worth. I don't care what you say about 'family ties' uniting us against a greater evil. You are no family to me, and I will _never_ obey you."

A new darkness overcame Ivan's face. He took a step towards Toris, the thick scent of vodka intensifying. A chill bit into Toris's skin as the Russian smiled, a gloved finger ghosting across his neck to tilt his head upwards. Toris braced himself for those huge fingers to close around his throat. Ivan's voice was a soft rumble as he whispered, "We'll see about that, Little One." His fingers left Toris's neck, then without a word he spun on his heel and strode out of the room. The only sound was the steady thump of his footsteps fading down the hall.

Toris stood eyes wide, his entire body numb with shock. _Feliks is dead._ The sentence repeated over and over, but he couldn't make sense of the words. _Feliks is dead. Feliks is dead. Feliks is dead._ Toris tried to remember the last thing he had said to the Pole. It was at a meeting, in 1938 when Feliks had demanded that they re-establish diplomatic ties. But it had been just that: Diplomacy, and nothing more. As hard as he tried to remember any specific words, all Toris could recall was the steely look of hate that Feliks had shot him from across the meeting room. Toris felt a mixture of anger and guilt roil in his gut. What had they even been fighting over? Why had they hated each other so much?

He would never see Feliks again. He would never meet those mischievous green eyes, never hear the crackling laugh and gossiping jokes... nobody would ever call him 'Liet' again. And it was his fault.

Toris let out a strangled choke. His legs gave way and he sank to the floor on his knees, hands trembling as they pressed to the wood for balance. He gasped for air, as if in pain… and then finally the tears came and they would not stop. His sides heaved, mucus clogging his throat as he bowed his head to the floor. His entire body ached as though it was being crushed, his mind reeled as though he was free-falling from a cliff.

Toris was barely aware of the sound of rushing footsteps, hands cupping his face and asking what was wrong. "He – he's _dead!_ " He wailed in his own language. "He's dead, he – he – he's – d-d…. d… F-Feliks… NO-OO-O! NO, NOOOO!" He felt arms around him, the familiar scent of the Baltic sea, and he clung onto his brothers and screamed as he felt the entire world collapse beneath his feet.

 **History Notes**

 **The Polish-Lithuanian War:  
After the end of WWI, the Polish and Lithuanian armies worked together to fight against advancing Soviet Forces. Poland didn't recognize Lithuania's independence and wanted to re-establish a union similar to that of the Commonwealth. They also refused to leave the Vilnius region, claiming that the majority of its inhabitants were Polish. In 1919 Poland attempted a coup of the Lithuanian government, but it failed. Tensions heightened when Lithuania signed a treaty with the Soviets, allowing for free troop movement within their borders to help the Soviets fight Poland. Poland accused the Lithuanian government of being a Soviet puppet, while Lithuania claimed they were only defending their borders. With pressure from the League of Nations, an armistice was signed on November 29, 1920. Poland retained control of Vilnius, which Lithuania refused to recognize. There were no diplomatic relations between Poland and Lithuania until 1938, when Poland demanded relations be reestablished to protect against Nazi invasion.  
** **  
Soviet Deportations:  
** **After Stalin took control of the Soviet Union in 1927, he started mass deportations of "enemies of the state". What began as a way to remove political rivals turned into a purging of innocent civilians. Between 1936 and 1938, an estimated 1.2 million people were killed in what became known as the Great Purge.**

 **Ukraine:**  
 **The Holodomor was a devastating famine that struck Ukraine from 1932-1933. It was caused by the Soviet collectivization of farms and poor management by the government which forced peasants to grow unfamiliar crops. A large amount of grain wasn't harvested, and even when it was, it was often lost during processing, transportation, or storage. It's estimated that up to 7.5 million people died in the famine.**

 **Invasion of Poland:  
The invasion of Poland was first carried out by the Nazis on September 1, 1939. While the Poles had good military organization from the Polish-Soviet wars, they were vastly outnumbered in weapons and manpower by the Nazis. They** **attacked on Poland's western, southern and northern borders, while aircraft began raids on Polish cities. By September 17, Poland's only hope** **was to retreat and reorganize. These plans were destroyed nearly overnight when the over 800,000-strong Red Army attacked from the East. In addition to conquering the country, the invasion was an attempt to create "living space" for Germans. Atrocities were committed against Polish civilians, and up to 200,000 were killed. After the invasion was over, Poland was divided between the Nazis and the Soviet Union. Lithuania received back its capital, Vilnius, as promised in a mutual-assistance treaty with the USSR.**

 **Surrounding the invasion, Lithuania refused to back the Polish government, not believing that Poland could win against the Nazis or Soviets. Even after they accepted Poland's 1938 ultimatum (which made it possible to send a letter directly from Poland to Lithuania without it getting shipped to another country first. Yeah, relations were THAT bad.), Lithuania did not send any troops to assist Poland in the invasion.**

 **AN:**  
 **I apologize for three things, One: the gore. I know this chapter is more graphic than what I usually write, but war is messy. Two: the ungodly length of this chapter – I hope it was exciting enough to keep you reading. And three: I lied about this story being only two chapters... but with me, this shouldn't be much of a surprise. Also I have to send out a huge DANKE to my German friend for helping me with translations. ^ ^**

 **Thank you so much for reading, and reviews are much loved!**


	3. Chapter 3

**June 28, 1941  
Berlin, Germany**

Dinner was wiener schnitzel with sauerkraut and fried potatoes, or so France announced before muttering under his breath that it was appalling he be forced to cook something so blasphemous to the art of food. Toris didn't mind – he hadn't eaten a proper meal in a week.

Dinners at Russia's house were always strained with the Baltics' fear of their master, but it was nothing compared to the tension at the Nazi Household. The dining room was deadly silent, save for the scrapes of forks against plates and the muffled chewing of what Toris counted as no less than _fifteen_ nations sitting around a giant rectangular table. His eyes widened when he realized that plus Germany, Prussia, and Hungary, that number would be eighteen… and he was sure that his brothers, Ukraine, and Natalia would soon follow. And if the Nazis succeeded in their invasion of the Soviet Union… Toris didn't even want to think about it.

Austria sat at the head of the table, back straight and utensils brandished with the elegance of a true aristocrat. He made no effort to start any conversation, and seemed perfectly content to sit in the dreadful silence that engulfed the room. Toris imagined that dinner would have been very different with Prussia here – the narcissist would probably use the opportunity to torment everyone at the table. Toris shuddered at the memory of that bloodstained smile, hoping that he would never have to see it again.

Just then there was the first noise of the meal: someone cleared their throat. Everyone looked up from their plates, trying to find the source. Halfway down the table Toris heard a familiar voice: "Herr Austria?"

Toris could see every nation tense at the use of English. Austria didn't bother to look up from his plate, ignoring whoever had called his name.

"Aren't you going to introduce to us our new housemate?"

Toris paled, and he was at last able to see that it was Czech who had spoken. Several nations looked around in confusion, scanning the faces around the table to try and see who this new 'housemate' was. He looked at Austria to see the former empire's eyebrow twitch in irritation. He looked even more annoyed than usual – it was obvious that he and Czech were not in good standing. After collecting himself, Austria looked up with a blank expression and gestured towards Toris.

"We welcome Lithuania to the Third Reich."

Toris had to resist squirming as he felt all eyes fall on him, slight whispers flitting across the room. He heard the word 'invasion' as eyes widened in horror, darting to the bandage on his head. Austria seemed even more annoyed that his precious silence had been broken.

"Yes, you hopeful fools, Operation Barbarossa is _working._ It shouldn't be such a shock, seeing as you yourselves were clearly incapable of stopping invasion."

There were some growled insults, but the muttering at the table receded back into resentful chewing. An elbow dug into Toris's ribs, and he glanced sideways to look into a pair of worried brown eyes. Toris couldn't place the name; he knew this had to be one of the Balkans. "How bad was it?" the nation whispered.

Toris opened his mouth to respond, but the memories from his dream came back and a chill ran down his spine. He turned to his food, suddenly losing his appetite. "I can't remember. I was unconscious for most of it."

The nation nodded in understanding. "You were lucky, then." Austria shot him a glare that clearly meant 'shut up', but the nation only huffed through his nose and stabbed his fork into a lump of sauerkraut. As Toris took one more glance around the table, he realized that many of these nations had once been under Austro-Hungarian rule. He imagined their history with Austria was similar to his with Ivan – long and full of resentment.

It was then that Toris's gaze came to rest on Feliks, slouched in his chair between Czech and Belgium. The Pole hadn't looked at him throughout the entire meal. His head was bowed over his pate, taking small bites and chewing slowly as if even digesting the food was painful. Toris couldn't stop himself from glancing up every few minutes, but Feliks never looked up from his plate.

With zero conversation, the meal was over fairly quickly. There was a _clink_ of Austria's fork being placed on his plate, and everyone simultaneously put their own utensils down. As he rose to his feet they all did, each carrying their plate in silence as they filed out of the dining room. A few muttered their thanks to France, who looked as though he was about to cry. Toris knew that the flamboyant nation adored the art of food above all else – it must pain him to watch it being eaten so morosely.

When about half of the nations had left, the nation beside Toris turned to him again. "Austria wasn't always this bad," he whispered. Toris started at the use of Russian, then he recognized the nation from years ago during the Great War – it was Serbia. "Of course he'll forever be a prick, but he used to let us break as many of the rules as he could without getting into trouble. We much preferred him to Germany or Prussia." Serbia's face grew somber. "But ever since they took Hungary away, he's been determined to make our lives even more miserable. He's angry at Germany and Prussia, and he's taking it out on us. I never thought I'd say this, but I hope she comes back soon."

"How did she treat you?" Toris asked, remembering the use of her name in Austria's speech.

Serbia shrugged. "She wanted to help us, but there wasn't much she could do. Mainly she slipped out resistance letters and made contacts. Austria knew she would be tortured if Germany or Prussia found out, so he covered for her. But now that she's gone, there's even less we can do to help our people."

"I'm sorry." Toris glanced around nervously. "But really, you don't have to speak Russian. I don't want you to get in trouble."

"You mean that stupid language rule? Everyone breaks it all the time – as long as Austria can't hear us we're fine. Didn't you speak your native language when Russia wasn't around?"

Toris felt his stomach clench, his eyes falling to the floor. "No."

Serbia's eyes widened in surprise. He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off with a bark from the doorway, "Litauen!"

Toris straightened so fast that his silverware slid on his plate. "Jawhol?"

"You will assist in drying the dishes, then retire to your room no later than twenty hours sharp. You are to report to my office at exactly seven o' cock in the morning to receive further instruction."

"Jawhol."

Austria's eyes slid towards Serbia, narrowing in distain. "And no more chit-chatting with the _ingrate."_ He turned sharply and strode out of the doorway, the medals on his uniform jingling as he went.

Serbia rolled his eyes. "A big fan of mine, that one."

"It… wouldn't have anything to do with your people shooting his Archduke, would it?"

A sly smile flickered across the Serb's face. "Or me putting a bullet through his chest while he was writing music at his desk? Of course not, we're the _best_ of friends."

It was then that Toris realized he was speaking with the nation who had essentially started the Great War. Serbia must have seen the nervous look on his face. "There's no point in reminiscing, _Litva._ If this war continues the way it's been going, it won't be long before we're all bleeding out on the floor, da?"

Toris decided he didn't like Serbia speaking Russian to him. He smiled weakly, then excused himself and darted into the kitchen. "I'm… supposed to help dry the dishes?" Norway and Netherlands looked up from the sink, their expressions equally blank. Toris couldn't help but notice how both of their eyes scanned the length of his body – it was the same look Eduard would give him when searching for injuries. Toris cleared his throat, and the two blinked. Norway turned back to the sink and Netherlands jerked a thumb in the direction of a stack of wet dishes on the counter.

The three of them worked in silence, but this time Toris was grateful for it. Every conversation he had with the nations who lived here only painted a grimmer picture of what life as a Nazi territory had in store for him. Toris felt his stomach sink. _And my brothers._ He wondered how Prussia would treat them, or their people. It was unbearable to imagine them getting hurt.

Norway and Netherlands finished before he did, and Toris was left alone in the kitchen as the light from outside grew dim. He was almost finished when he heard footsteps nearing. He looked up to see Czech standing in the doorway. Toris smiled weakly. "Guten Abend." He felt stupid saying it, but he may as well start practicing his German now.

Czech wore the same blank, haunted expression that Toris had seen on everyone else here. "I know you didn't like that I singled you out at dinner. But you deserve the dignity of at least being _acknowledged_ , even if they are going to take everything else from you."

Toris's eyes fell to the plate in his hands. "Thank you."

"I came because Poland asked me to. He wants you to meet him in the downstairs living room at the back of the house. Do you think you can find it?"

"I'm sure I can manage. Do…you know why he wants to see me?"

"No. Any idea why he would be building a fire in June?"

Toris frowned. "He's doing what?"

"He is a mystery to us both, then." She nodded in Toris's direction. "Gute Nacht, Litauen. And… be careful."

She turned to leave but Toris called out, "Wait." She stopped and turned to look back at him. "Why do you care? Everyone else here seems to have given up hope, but you're helping me."

Her expression became somber. "My brother and I were the first to arrive at this house. We're the only ones who saw what Poland was like when he first got here, what he's truly been through. I've watched him fight back to the bitter end regardless of the consequences…but something has changed. I don't know if it's the war, or if it's because he's lost his will to keep fighting…but I don't think he has much time left." Her eyes softened. "I know you two hate each other. But you may be his only hope."

Czech's words repeated again and again in Toris's head as he made his way through the dark halls. _I don't think he has much time left._ After the relief of knowing that Feliks was alive, and now it was possible that he could still die? Toris trembled at the thought – he couldn't bare to suffer that grief again. He remembered the dark glare the Pole had shot him earlier, the hate lining his words. Toris's chest seized with helplessness. How could he save Feliks if he still hated him?

As he neared the back of the house, Toris heard the crackling of a fire. Soft orange light glowed on the walls, flickering shadows across the floor. He slowed as he entered the room and peered in to see the slim figure of Feliks prodding a stack of logs with a poker. Toris frowned; why _would_ Feliks be building a fire in June?

"I'm not going to, like, burn you alive or something."

Toris tensed. He decided that was the Pole's way of saying 'come in.' Even if it was blunt, at least he was speaking Polish this time. He uncrossed his arms and slowly walked into the room, waiting for Feliks to start the conversation.

"Your legs will probably get tired if you just stand there."

Toris assumed this meant 'have a seat.' Feliks still didn't look at him, still poking and prodding at the fire. As Toris lowered himself to the floor, he watched a whirl of sparks fly up into the chimney. His eyes darted from the fire, to Feliks, and back again. The silence around them was itchy, the only noise coming from the crackling of the logs.

"So like, what happened to your head?"

Toris nearly sighed in relief, thankful that Feliks had started a casual conversation. It was the first thing akin to concern that Feliks had said to him in over twenty years. "Prussia shot me."

Feliks snorted. "You deserved it."

Toris felt his muscles tense up again. He tried to decipher any emotion from the Pole, but Feliks's face remained stony and unreadable in the orange glow. He leaned towards the fireplace and propped the poker against the logs, the flames curling around the iron tip. "Please tell me you got a few shots in."

Toris couldn't tear his eyes away from the poker. "I didn't get a chance. He used a grenade."

Feliks curled a lip. "Well that's like, cheap."

"That's what I told him."

"Before he blasted your brains out."

"Mm."

Feliks stepped away from the fireplace, sinking to the floor next to Toris as he propped his chin on a hand and stared into the flames. "Wait two days, then take the bandage off. It won't bleed, but the hole will still be there. Totally grosses them out."

Toris let his eyes rest on his friend. Ivan could have lied to him about what happened to Feliks… but it was very possible that he had told the truth. If Prussia had cut him in half while Germany watched from the sidelines, what else could they have done during his three years of living in this horrible place? The guilt welled up in him again, so strong that his voice cracked.

"Feliks – "

"Shut up."

Toris held back tears. He couldn't do this, he couldn't bare to keep fighting. If Feliks could just understand how _sorry_ he was –

"I know what you're going to say, and it won't change anything." Feliks kept his gaze forward, the flames throwing shadows across the gashes in his face. "I've spent twenty-three years hating you. For leaving me, for siding with Russia, and now for standing idle while my people are murdered. The tanks, the camps, this entire freaking _war_ needs to be blamed on someone. Everyone says that it's Prussia's fault for raising Germany this way… but not me. To me, it's your fault."

Toris's blood chilled at those words. Feliks's voice remained cold and even.

"I convinced myself that it was because of you. That somehow, if you had agreed to marry me again, or if you had helped me fight back during the invasion… that none of this would have happened. I believed that it had been in your power to stop this entire war, and you chose to let it rage just because you wanted your damn capital back. And because of that, I prayed to God that Russia would lock you in the dungeon and leave you there to rot. I wanted you to feel my pain, I wanted you to hear the screams that I hear and hate yourself for it."

A sense of betrayal stirred inside of Toris. A year ago he had been so furious at Ivan for killing his best friend that Toris had refused to obey him. The consequence was weeks of excruciating torture in the dungeon that left him with scars he would bare for the rest of his life. Toris had felt he deserved those scars for letting Feliks die. But the thought that Feliks had actually _prayed_ for this to happen to him… He bowed his head, fingernails digging into his knees. It seemed an eternity before Feliks spoke again.

"Do you know what it feels like to be dead?"

Toris didn't reply, knowing that Feliks would answer his own question.

"It's this crazy feeling of being here, but not being here. My blood feels so thin that some days I expect it to be clear, like water… or for the light to shine through my skin like a silk curtain. When I trip, my bones rattling inside of me like they're about to shatter. I can feel the strands of myself unraveling, my insides quivering just trying to stay in once piece. My senses flicker on and off, like a broken electric wire. I black out – voices will become distant echoes, faces blur into washes of color. Sometimes I can't feel anything, like I'm not even here. I can't feel the floor or my clothes or even my own skin. It's just – nothing. Like I'm just a part of the oxygen in the room.

"But that's not even the worst of it. It's not just my body that's fading, it's my _people._ My government, my culture, my language… They've been reduced to a pulse that I can barely feel. It's like I'm… blind, it's like I've lost communication with a part of myself. And when I try to make a connection – " Feliks's voice cracked and he bowed his head. "All I feel is pain. It burns, and my head explodes with the sounds of their screams. I can feel the gunshots ripping through my body again and again, my lungs fill with poison gas and I choke until I'm coughing up blood. Sometimes I can't stop, and I pass out. But it doesn't end there, because every time I go unconscious or fall asleep, I wake up in the smoking ruins of one of my villages, or in a ditch filled with rotting carcasses, or inside a camp where my people are being systematically murdered. I see it with my own eyes, I can _smell_ the stench of their decaying bodies.

"As nations, we are supposed to draw strength from our people. But the only thing I can draw from them is _fear_ and _hate_ and this – this _hopelessness_." Feliks's hand trembled as he wiped it across his nose. "Liz tried to help me. Once she found out what was happening to me, she would never stop telling me to keep fighting. She stayed up with me through my sleepless nights and we would talk about the old days, before the war. And when I started screaming and coughing, she would be there to hold me, and tell me again and again that it would all be over soon, that I just had to survive for _one more_ day and I would be that much closer to being free of this hell.

"But… but they – th-they took her…" Feliks choked and pressed a hand to his mouth. "Germany sent her to fight on the Eastern front, a-and I don't know if she'll even survive. She – she could _die_ out there, and – " He pulled up his knees, and the tears flowed freely. "And she – she told me to keep on fighting but I can't, I _can't_ keep doing it because I know that I'm just a breath away from dying, and I _want_ to because I-I don't want to do this anymore, I can't keep feeling this pain, it's too much, I…" Feliks squeezed his eyes shut, taking a shuddering breath as he smeared the tears away with the palms of his hands.

Toris was in shock. What Feliks had described was worse than anything he had been through, even after a century of being under Russia's rule. "Feliks, if there is anything I can do – "

"There is nothing you can do," Feliks snarled. "You've made your choice again and again, Liet. _You_ made me like this."

Toris opened his mouth to reply, but his voice got stuck in his throat. What was he to say? That Feliks was wrong, that it wasn't his fault? "Feliks, I – I'm _sorry_ , I don't know what else to say – "

"That's the thing, Liet. You can say that as many times as you want, but I know you don't really mean it." Feliks pushed himself to his feet and approached the fireplace. Toris's eyes darted to the poker – by now it was glowing orange from the heat of the fire. His eyes widened as Feliks bent down and took the metal rod from the logs, a trail of smoke curling into the air as he swung it out into the living room.

"Wh-what are you doing – "

Feliks's open eye reflected the yellow-orange glow as if he were a wild animal. His face softened, tears shimmering on his cheeks. "This is the only way for me to get better."

Toris jumped to his feet, holding out his hands as he backed away. "Feliks, please, you're not thinking this through – "

"Of course I am, I've been thinking it through ever since Liz left. I can't kill myself because that would make me a traitor my people, and I can't let Austria do it because that would be surrendering to the Nazis, plus I totally hate him. None of the other nations will do it because they would get in trouble and it wouldn't be worth it to them."

Toris froze. "Wait – _what?"_

Feliks's gaze rose up to meet Toris for the first time. His face was blank, absent of the hate or remorse of earlier. It was chilling to see that he was just… empty. "But you can do it." He turned the poker so that the handle pointed towards Toris and held it out. He looked Toris straight in the eyes as he said, "You can kill me."

Toris's mouth fell open, barely able to process Feliks's words. They were so similar to what he had spat two decades ago: _Go ahead, cut my head off._ But looking at Feliks's broken face, Toris knew that time it wasn't a challenge – it was an honest request.

"You don't get it, Liet. The kind of pain I'm in, the nightmares that I have – it's because I'm supposed to be dead. The only reason I'm alive is because Liz sewed the pieces of my body back together, because at least more of my people were alive back then." The glowing tip of the poker quivered as he continued, "My people are gone, my government is gone, my borders are gone, and now Liz is gone. I have nothing, I am nothing, but yet I'm still left here to suffocate in my nothingness. I know you hate me. So take this poker and run it through my heart so that we can both get what we want."

Toris stared at him in disbelief. "You – you think I want you _dead?"_

Feliks's face contorted into anger. "Don't give me your compassionate bullshit, Liet. I know you hate me, just _do_ it!"

"No!" Toris cried. "No, this is madness! You're alive for a reason, your people are still out there fighting. Even if all you feel is pain, it's because they need you to survive!"

Feliks's voice lowered to a growl. "You say that like you care."

"Of course I care, Feliks! When Ivan took me back to his mansion, he told me that you were dead, and I – my whole _world_ it just – " Toris's voice cracked as he continued, "Look, I can help you like Hungary did – just like you did for me during the Great War. I-I can sing folk songs, I can tell old stories to get your mind off of things – "

"NO!" Feliks roared, swinging the poker so that it hissed as it flew through the air. "You say this now, but you won't! You don't know what it's like, Liet. You'll have to hold me down in the middle of the night, I'll cough up blood all over you and scream horrible things, I'll try to _kill_ you. You'll give up the moment it becomes too much for you, you'll abandon me just like you do every other time!"

Those words stabbed Toris in the chest. Standing there looking at the trembling figure of his friend, he realized that Feliks was right. Whenever things got too hard for Toris, he ran. It was what he had always done, even during the Commonwealth. The guilt crashed into him again as realized that Feliks truly believed Toris incapable of helping him – that he would rather see him dead.

Without a word, Toris stood up straight and walked over to his friend. He reached out and took the poker from Feliks's hand. The Pole's expression didn't change, tears shimmering on the corners of his eyes as he breathed hard through his nose. His hand fell from the poker and he stood up straight, waiting for Toris to run the metal through his heart.

Toris looked Feliks straight in the eye as he hurled the poker into the fireplace with a _clang._

"NO!" Feliks lunged at Toris, but he was so weak that Toris barely felt it. He gripped his friend by the shoulders and forced him to look into his face. For the first time Toris saw utter terror reflected in those eyes. Feliks trembled, tears rolling down his cheeks, lips pulled into a grimace of pain that was unbearable to see. He gasped for air as his fingers balled into fists around Toris's collar. "Kill me," he begged. "P-please, I can't I c-can't, I can't _do_ this anymo-o-re!"

Toris had to hold back his own tears as he gripped Feliks's shoulders. "Feliks Łukasiewicz. You were, and are, and always will be, my best friend in the entire world. And I am telling the truth, when I say that I will _not_ let you die, under _any_ circumstances – "

"N-no, n-no…"

"And _nothing_ will change that – not betrayal, not revenge, not war or whatever kind of twisted hell that this is. I swear to you, Feliks. I will do everything in my power to help you get through this. We will get through this, together. Like we always have, like we always will _._ And you are _not_ going to die."

Toris watched as something broke inside of his friend's eyes. He gasped for air, hands trembling on Toris's collar. Toris pulled him into an embrace and felt Feliks grow weak against him. Bony arms encircled around his neck and Feliks's face buried into his shoulder. Then his frail body started shaking with sobs, and Toris could no longer hold back the tears. His hand curled around the Pole's uniform pressing Feliks tight against himself so that _nothing –_ not even death – could snatch him away.

He didn't know how long they stood in each other's arms, crying. But as Toris ran his hands through strands of brittle blond hair, he knew one thing: That Feliks had forgiven him, and the twenty-three years of hate between them were finally over.

 **June 30, 1941  
Berlin, Germany **

The first two nights were difficult. Thankfully Toris had experience with violent flashbacks from the Russian Revolution. Feliks wasn't nearly as strong as Ivan had been, and so Toris assumed it would be relatively easy to talk him through the nightmares. He had been horrified to discover that most nights Feliks didn't sleep at all, instead writing in his archive of journals or sending out resistance letters. Toris insisted that Feliks at least _try_ to get some sleep. It took a few hours, but Toris awoke to bony fingers curling around his neck as Feliks screamed for him to 'let her go.' He barely managed to pry off the Pole's vice grip and shake him awake. Feliks didn't apologize, but slunk wordlessly to his desk where he took out a journal and started writing. Toris had a bad feeling that sleep would be a rarity.

The next day he walked in on Feliks coughing blood onto the living room floor. He ran to him and held him up while Feliks clung to his uniform and begged Toris to 'Make it stop, p-please, _please!'_ , with such agony that for a moment Toris thought it would be better for Feliks to die than suffer this kind of pain. But he remembered his promise, and took Feliks's head in his hands as he assured him that it would all be over soon, that the war would end tomorrow if Feliks could just survive until then…

It was strange to be rooming with Feliks again. The last time they had shared a room was during the Great War, and nights were often filled with passionate kissing beneath the covers. But to go this far was unimaginable for Toris – not only because they had hated each other so recently, but because Feliks seemed to barely have the energy to finish his daily chores, let alone carry on an affair. Toris was even uncomfortable undressing around Feliks, not wanting him to see the new scars marring his back from Ivan's torture. Feliks also made sure to slip into the bathroom when changing, probably for the same reason. Knowing what the Pole had been through, Toris could only imagine the kind of wounds concealed beneath his uniform.

But he soon learned that there was another reason for the Pole's lack of interest.

It was Toris's third day at the mansion, and he and Feliks had been ordered to polish a dish collection. The silver plates and utensils were spread across the table, the air thick with the scent of polish. Toris tossed Feliks a rag, but he accidentally hit him in the head.

"Oh, sorry!"

Feliks hissed in pain, pressing a hand to one of the gashes. The wounds should have healed by now, but he was so weak that they had barely scabbed over. Toris had wondered about his injuries, but until now he was too afraid to ask.

"Did Germany do that before he left?"

"What, these?" Feliks reached down and snatched the rag from the floor. "No, this was Austria."

Toris's eyes widened. He knew that Austria was strict, but he could never imagine him inflicting the kinds of wounds on Feliks's face. Toris recognized a beating when he saw one. _"Austria?"_

"Yeah. I like, pissed him off."

Toris tried to imagine what Feliks could have done to set off the aristocrat's temper. Feliks caught him staring and explained himself, "He and Lizzie had a big fight before she left. He blames me for her falling out of love with him, or some shit." Feliks scoffed. "He doesn't need my help for that. He like, did it all on his own."

Toris frowned. Why would Austria blame Feliks for such a thing? It didn't make any sense, unless… Toris narrowed his eyes into a I-know-you're-not-telling-me-everything look.

Feliks growled in frustration. "I kissed her before she left, okay? It's not like, a big deal or anything, geez!"

Toris's mouth fell open. "You _kissed_ Hungary? In front of _Austria?!"_

"He wasn't supposed to see it! And it's not even a big deal, we're just friends!"

Toris folded his arms and smirked. "Uh-huh."

"Don't give me that look! She was the only one keeping me alive and they were sending her off to her death, what else was I supposed to do!? For all I know, I might never see her again!"

"Alright," Toris said, smiling. He decided not to point out how red Feliks's face had become. "But for the record, anyone who kisses Austria's wife should expect a beating."

" _Ex_ -wife," Feliks corrected. "And you shut up."

Toris suppressed a smile, dipping his rag in the polish and smearing it to a silver plate. "Did she kiss back?"

For a while Feliks didn't answer, furiously scrubbing a fork. "No. But it's not like I gave her a chance, or anything! It was just a goodbye thing, we're not – " He cut himself off with a growl of frustration. "I'm like, totally done talking about this." Feliks pointed the fork threateningly at Toris. "And this is like, a huge secret, just so you know."

"The you kissing Hungary thing."

"Yeah. Like, best friend, cross your heart and hope to freaking _die_ secret, got it?"

"So we're best friends." Toris still hadn't gotten him to say it out loud.

Feliks paused, then went back to polishing his fork. "Yeah," he said, as if they had been so their entire lives.

Toris couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face. "Okay." A comfortable silence settled between them. After so long of being alone, he had forgotten the comfort of just being in the presence of his friend, even if they weren't talking. He also realized how strange it was, that an entire war was raging and yet here they were, polishing silver. Even so, this was a golden opportunity to find more about Feliks's "friendship" with Hungary.

"So… was this a first time thing, or…?"

"SHUT _UP_ , LIET!"

Toris did something he had not done in a long time: He laughed.

 **History Notes:**

 **Serbia in WWI:  
In 1998, Austria-Hungary annexed its former territory of Bosnia and Herzegovina** **, which angered Serbia. After a series of regional wars, Serbian nationalism arose which was opposed to Austro-Hungarian presence in the area. Archduke Franz Ferdinand was heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne and wanted to initiate reforms which would unite Slavic lands into Austro-Hungary. On June 28, 1914, Gavrilo Princip of Serbia shot Franz Ferdinand as he passed on the street in a procession. Despite an Ultimatum demanding peace, Serbia mobilized its army and Austria-Hungary declared war. Due to previous alliances, Prussia and Germany sided with Austria-Hungary and Russia and France sided with Serbia. Thus began the First World War.**

 **Czechoslovakia:  
After Anschluss, Hitler declared that ethnic Germans living in Czechoslovakia were being mistreated. On September 30, 1938, Nazi Germany signed the Munich Agreement with France, Italy, and Britain demanding that Czechoslovakia cede a southern region to Nazi Germany. The Czechoslovak government was neither notified nor consulted about this. In the aftermath, territory was split between Hungary and Poland and Czechoslovakia almost ceased to exist. After the invasion of Poland, the Czechoslovak territory was directly integrated into the Third Reich. **

**Poland:  
The Nazi agenda in Poland was not only to annex its territory, but to totally destroy Polish culture and the nation itself. Jews were expelled from their homes and forced to live in ghettos, and Polish citizens were arrested off the streets and used in forced labor. Catholic clergy and Polish professors were also imprisoned or sent to concentration camps. After the start of Operation Barbarossa, the exploitation of Polish labor and resources increased, resulting in widespread disease and hunger. It is estimated that about 5.7 million Polish citizens died as a result of German occupation – about a sixth of its population. **

**AN:  
So there it is! I hope you don't mind me using some less popular characters – Czech and Slovakia DID become official Hetalia characters recently (FINALLY!) and so I thought I should take advantage! I have been to the Czech Republic and have a friend from Serbia, so I felt relatively comfortable writing for those characters. (As opposed to Lithuania and Poland, which I have never been to and don't have any friends from. Whoops.)**

 **Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed this story, and please leave a review to let me know why or why not! :)**


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